


Stand Without Flinching

by Canon_Is_Relative, ImpishTubist



Series: Winter's Child [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, Kid Fic, Language, M/M, Paternal Lestrade, descriptions of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:56:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lands himself in the hospital, again, but something about this time is different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Operates in the Winter's Child 'verse when Calvin is two years old, but can be read as a stand-alone.
> 
> “I don't care about whose DNA has recombined with whose. When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching--they are your family.”  
>    -Jim Butcher

John looked around the living room one last time and nodded - everything closed up tight. He left Calvin playing happily by himself, his trains and trucks spread out around him as he narrated a tale of adventure and intrigue, and walked up the stairs, humming softly. Enjoying the relative quiet. It was the calm before the storm, he knew; angry clouds were churning the skies above London, and a heavy downpour was inevitable. And Sherlock, his own personal storm cloud, was due home within the hour.

John shut and latched the windows in their bedroom, wondering if Sherlock's mood will have improved at all after a day with Molly in the morgue. Cautiously hopeful that this might be the case, he decided not to let it affect the remainder of his quiet day with Calvin. The boy seemed, as always, to be growing before his eyes. But more than that, the mental leaps and bounds they'd witnessed in their son were nothing short of astounding. His skill and enjoyment in imaginative play was delightful. He didn't know when he'd laughed so hard as when Calvin marched his toast across his plate, making stomping, roaring noises, then reached up and smacked Sherlock's nose with it.  _Dino got daddy!_  Calvin had crowed, scattering crumbs as he waved around his breakfast-turned-T-Rex in delight.  _Dino got daddy!_

John privately thought that the two-year-old was possibly the only thing, person, or force of nature that had ever or could ever hold Sherlock's interest, and keep him on his toes and unbalanced.

John closed the last of the windows against the oncoming storm, and turned to go back downstairs.

John regained the living room to discover that he’d missed two calls - both of them from Lestrade. The man hadn’t left a voicemail message, but he’d texted three times, and John’s heart seized at the words - all of them the same.

_ Call me immediately _ .

“What’s he done?” John demanded the moment Lestrade picked up his phone. “What’s the bastard gone and gotten himself into this time?”

“John -” Lestrade stopped, and in that beat of silence John’s world started to fray.

“He’s dead,” John said dully, and there was a hiss of breath on the other end.

“No, no, he’s not, but John - there was an accident. He’s in surgery right now; I can give you a lift to the hospital. Are you at Baker Street?”

John must have said yes, though he couldn’t recall it, because suddenly Lestrade was saying, “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” and then the line went dead.

He was able to, in five minutes, throw together a bag for Sherlock and pass Calvin onto Mrs. Hudson, who was blessedly free for the afternoon. Tears welled in her eyes the moment she opened the door to her flat and saw John’s face, but fought them back as she balanced Calvin on her hip and made John promise that he would call her the moment he knew anything. Calvin had noticed the change in John’s demeanor, but remained silent until he was in Mrs. Hudson’s arms.

“Daddy?” he queried, and John went white. He tried his best to smile.

“Daddy’s...busy,” he said. “And I’m going to go see him. I’ll be back soon, all right? But you - you stay here and play with Mrs. Hudson. And we can go see daddy together later.”

He desperately hoped, as he bounded up the stairs to the flat, that he hadn’t just lied to his son.

\---

“What type of accident?” John asked the moment he was in Lestrade’s car and they were peeling away from Baker Street.

“Auto. Cab he was riding in got right smashed up, just outside Bart's. Teenaged idiot wasn't paying attention to the lights." Lestrade looked blankly at him. "Was shocked they called me first 'til I asked - were you aware that I'm still his emergency contact, not you?"

“Wanted you to be the one to break the news,” John said tightly. God, the row _that_ had caused, when John found out that Sherlock hadn't switched that over after the wedding. It had taken him an age to figure out it was Sherlock's version of a romantic gesture. "He never wanted me to find out something had happened  to him from someone else."

His head was throbbing. God, of all things, how could it have been a _car_ accident?  That was just...wrong. _Right smashed up. Just outside Bart's._ A vision of Sherlock on th pavement outside Bart's, his head haloed in a pool of blood, swam behind John's eyes and for a moment he felt about ready to pass out. _A car wreck._ Just _a car wreck, that's all._ He swallowed down bile and forced himself to speak, words to wrench his mind away from his memories. “Do you know anything else?”

  
Lestrade shook his head. “Haven’t heard a word, and if you haven’t either, I’d say that’s probably a good thing at this point. Means they’re still working on him. There’s still hope.”   
  
John, even through his cloud of terror, found Lestrade’s words astounding and not the least bit comforting. How was it, he wondered as they sped towards the hospital, that a man who had lost so much could be so optimistic at a time like this?   
  
\---

John came to sometime in the middle of the night, his body one massive knot of pain. He'd been sleeping in the plastic chair - and really, in the 21st century, why were hospitals still putting the same moulded plastic torture devices in patients' rooms - with his head pillowed on his arms by Sherlock's shoulder.

He hadn't left Sherlock's side since he'd come out of surgery. He'd sent Lestrade home around midnight - the DI was in the middle of a harrowing case and he looked completely ravaged, though how much of that was the do with the sight of Sherlock lying comatose in a hospital bed John couldn't say. Calvin was staying with Mrs Hudson for the night.

John rubbed his neck and looked down at his husband, lying so still that John almost couldn't recognize him. He blinked and as sleep fell away he felt the icy grip of fear return, squeezing at his heart.

He took Sherlock's long, limp hand and pressed it to his lips, then to his heart, feeling his heart knocking against Sherlock's palm and trying to convince himself that Sherlock could feel it too, wherever he was. He brushed Sherlock's hair back from his forehead.

"How're you doing in there, love?” His voice wavered and he closed his eyes, breathing through his nose. "You'd better come back to me soon."

He realized he was squeezing his hand hard and slowly loosened his grip, stroking the inside of Sherlock's wrist with his thumb. Sherlock's pulse fluttered weakly. The terror that John had kept at bay 'til now could no longer be held back and he felt himself start to tremble, great waves of fear wracking his entire body as he stroked Sherlock's face with shaking fingers. The world around them blurred 'til there was only Sherlock.

"Do you hear me, sweetheart? Sherlock, you've got to...you can't...you can't leave me, you _stupid.._. Not this time, you can't. You can't, you've got to come back to me and Calvin."  

His voice broke around their son's name and he sagged against the bed, pressing his forehead to Sherlock's, shoulders heaving.

"I-I c-can't do this with-without you, Sherlock. I need you. I c-couldn't--and Calvin--you're everything to us. You're b-bloody  _everything_ , do you hear me?"

Sherlock's breath stayed steady against his cheek and John squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, it was morning.

\---

"How was he?"

"A little terror," Mrs Hudson said softly. They stood in the door to the bedroom, watching Calvin sleep, his thumb in his mouth, a death grip on his teddy. "He's scared."

John blinked and bit the inside of his cheek.

Mrs Hudson touched his arm. "How is he?"

"Not awake yet."

She squeezed him. "He's a fighter, that one. He'll come through."

John leaned his head on Mrs Hudson's shoulder and she tutted and hugged him, stoking his hair.

"Daddy?"

John let out a sharp breath and steeled himself, turning to cross the room and kneel beside the bed, reaching out to stroke the boy's cheek. "It's just me, sunshine. Daddy's still busy."

Calvin blinked sleepily at him, hair standing up in clumps, his face red from the pillow. John leaned in and kissed his forehead, hugging him close. Calvin started to fidget. From the doorway he heard Mrs Hudson murmur, "You're scaring him, love."

John pulled back and tried to smile at his son. Calvin watched him warily, his thumb migrating back to his mouth.

"You want to go to the park today, buddy?"

"With daddy?"

"No, not today, buddy, daddy can't take you. It'll be just you and me, Cal, how's that sound?"

Calvin lay back down and pulled the covers over his head. John looked helplessly at Mrs Hudson, who looked about to cry but turned to bustle away, clucking promises of breakfast.

\---

"Greg, hi, I'm so sorry, I know how busy you are--"

"Don't apologize. How is he, any news?"

"The same. Hasn't woke up."

"You with him now?"

"No I'm at the park with Cal."

"And how's he doing?"

"He's scared, Mrs Hudson says, he knows something's wrong."

"Yeah. Kids...they're too smart for their own good."

"Christ, Greg, what do I do? He won't stop asking for him."

"Are you going to take Cal to see him?"

"Oh, God, I don't...how would he...God, I don't want to. He wouldn't understand. Seeing his dad just laying there, not talking to him? He'd be so scared. But what if---"

"He's going to be fine, John."

"What if he's not? What if Calvin doesn't get to say goodbye? Oh, God, what if--"

"John, listen to me. You can't do that, you can't think like that, you've got to stay strong for Cal, do you hear me?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I hear you. I hear you. I just...I can't..."

"You can. Look, give me a bit but I can get away for an hour. Where will you be, I'll come meet you two."

"No, no, you can't do that, you're in the middle of a case. Sherlock wouldn't like it."

"Sherlock can yell at me later. You need me."

John brought his hand to his mouth, holding in the cry of anguish that wanted so desperately to get out. The world went blurry. His beautiful little boy playing on the merry-go-round was the only thing in focus. He nodded, gulped down his sob, and rasped, "God help me."

\---

Calvin was down for his nap when Lestrade's steps sounded on the stairs. John opened the door and stepped aside to let him in, but Lestrade pulled him back, enveloping him in a fierce embrace.

John blinked and looked down when Lestrade let him go. "Do I look that miserable?"

"Yeah," Greg shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto a chair. "You do. Have you eaten today?"

"No," he admitted, picking up a plastic plate from the table that held the crusts of Cal's sandwich, carrying it to the sink. "Calvin did, though. And he's got an appetite like Sherlock after a case. It's frankly kind of alarming."

Lestrade flashed a smile over his shoulder before pulling open the fridge. "Anything in here I should be afraid of?"

"Not at the moment, far as I know. There's some leftover takeout on the bottom shelf, are you hungry?"

"Starving."

Lestrade pulled out the containers and dished out two servings, putting the plates in the microwave.

"What do the doctors say?"

John shrugged.

Lestrade handed him a plate and herded him to the table, putting a fork in his hand. “No change?”   
  
“None,” John confirmed, voice raspy. He took a tentative bite of food, and then another. And then he blinked and half the plate had gone while Lestrade’s was hardly touched. Lestrade gave a sad smile.   
  
“Nearly as bad as he is, you are,” he said.   
  
“Rubs off on you,” John muttered. He eyed his plate, but as quickly as it had become appetizing, the food abruptly lost its appeal. He pushed the plate away and said, “If he wakes up today, if they think he's strong enough, they’re taking him in for another surgery in the morning. For the leg. Completely wrecked from the knee on down. He’ll need physical therapy when this is all over with. Be laid up for a long while. Can you imagine?”   
  
“No,” Lestrade said earnestly.    
  
“It’ll be like having two children on my hands.”   
  
Lestrade snorted and said, “And how is that different from any other day?” 

John smiled weakly, beginning once again to pick at the now nearly raw spot on his thumb that he hadn't been able to leave alone. He felt Greg's eyes on him, and in a rush the words left his lips, thoughts he hadn't been able to dismiss, thoughts he would rather he'd never had to face. "Because Sherlock's not supposed to be the child, anymore. He's..."

John trailed off, throat feeling thick, and Lestrade finished his thought, voice low. "He's dad, now. I know, John."

John lifted burning eyes to meet Lestrade's gaze, his eyes as red as John's felt. Through the haze of his own self-pity, the absolute terror that gripped his heart - fear for Sherlock, for himself, for _Calvin_ \- John felt fear for Lestrade begin to penetrate the fog. Lestrade was a survivor. He'd outlived his son, his marriage. What would it do to him to add Sherlock to that ugly list?   
  
“Daddy?”   
  
John closed his eyes and Lestrade twisted in his chair at the new voice.   
  
“Hey, sport,” Lestrade said cheerfully, holding out an arm. Calvin’s face melted from confusion to delight, and he hurried into his godfather’s waiting arms. Lestrade lifted him easily and set him on his lap. “You’re supposed to be napping, I think, young man.”   
  
“Not tired. Where’s daddy?”   
  
“He’s not here right now,” John said, weary.   
  
“ _No,”_ Calvin burst out, and fought his way out of Lestrade’s arms.   
  
“All right - all right, _easy_ , buddy,” Lestrade said gently, helping Calvin down off his lap, and when Calvin’s feet hit the floor he bolted for the living room, on the verge of tears. John sighed and rubbed his temple. He barely had the energy to lift his fork to his mouth; how he was supposed to comfort Calvin in the way that he needed, John didn’t have a clue. Lestrade, obviously reading John’s pain in his face, gave his shoulder a bracing squeeze.    
  
It was only seconds before Calvin’s tortured mutterings became flat-out cries, and he worked his frustrations out on the mess in the living room, his toys and articles of clothing quickly falling victim to his grief and confusion.   
  
"Where is daddy? _Where is daddy?!_ "   
  
A lamp was subjected to a violent push and an untimely death before John was halfway out of his chair.    
  
"Calvin! Stop it-- _Calvin!"_   
  
A shoe crashed into the framed photograph on the mantelpiece and the sound of breaking glass and Calvin's wails filled the whole of the flat. John wrapped his arms around Calvin, lifting him bodily and carrying him with difficulty--thirty pounds of writhing, flailing limbs and a voice to split his ear drums--to the couch where he held him tight, letting Calvin sob himself out.    
  
Lestrade set about cleaning up from their impromptu lunch, obviously not wanting to interfere but at the same time unwilling to leave. John was grateful for this, Lestrade’s presence being his only rock at a time when the rest of his world felt like it was fraying and slipping away.    
  
When Calvin had subsided and John could make himself heard above his cries, he turned Calvin to look up at him. The boy's face was red and shining with tears and snot and John used his sleeve to wipe around his eyes.   
  
"Daddy's had to go to the doctor. He got hurt."

" _Why_?" Calvin screwed up his face, trying again to escape his papa's arms.

"Sometimes people get hurt and they have to go away for a little while to get better."

"I want daddy!"

"I know, sunshine," John kissed his forehead, trying to will his son to stop moving, stop crying, stay calm. "I do too."

Calvin's little shoulders shaking, he chanted breathlessly around his thumb, "I want daddy...I want daddy..."

"When daddy's feeling a little better, he'll come home."

Calvin pulled his hand away from his face and beat it against John's leg. "No,  _now!_ "

John caught his hand and kissed each tiny finger. "He can't come home now, buddy. He has to stay with the doctors so they can look after him."

His eyes filled with tears and he asked plaintively, "Why?"

John closed his eyes and held in a pained sigh. He murmured softly into Calvin's hair, "I wish I was two, I'd be screaming and throwing things right along with you."

Cal quieted a bit, sticking his thumb in his mouth, hiccuping the end of his tantrum.

John continued to mumble into his hair, holding on to Cal as tight as he'd let him. "Daddy will be home soon, love. I know he will. You know he can't stand being away from us. He's bloody useless without us and he knows it. He'll be back and be as annoying as ever."

Lestrade, overhearing this, snorted a laugh, giving John an apoloetic look when he looked up at him. But John shook his head, giving a faint shadow of a smile himself. 

Calvin, looking between the adults, asked softly, "Daddy...come home, come home now?"

"Soon, buddy."

"No. Now."

John took a deep breath, preparing for the tantrum to start up all over again, and his mobile started to ring.

\---

Calvin's outraged screams echoed down the corridor but John hardly heard him as he slipped into the room.

Sherlock lay in bed, as immobile as before, except...

...except his eyelids fluttered and two fingers lifted feebly off the mattress. His lips parted on a soft breath, a thin sound that John recognized as his own name.

His whole body went numb and his legs turned to jelly. Next he knew he was half in bed with Sherlock, murmuring his name over and over against the papery skin of his cheek, both hands clasped around Sherlock's.

The nurse - John hadn't registered her presence until she pulled at him gently to lift him off an IV line, quietly rearranging things to keep Sherlock as comfortable as possible - slipped out after a minute.

Slight pressure on his hand made John lift his head to look down at Sherlock. His eyes were still closed but his lips moved, his voice nearly inaudible.

"Being...silly..."

"You make me silly," John giggled, relief and residual fear turning him loopy.

"Cal...?"

"He's here. He's with Greg."

"Greg?" Sherlock struggled to open his eyes, the ghost of a frown on his face. "Case?"

John groaned. "I told him you wouldn't like it."

Sherlock sighed and melted deeper into his pillows. "Should listen..."

"Shh," John stroked his face, watching his eyes flicker behind closed lids. "Take it easy, love."

"Worried."

John's eyes burned and he squeezed Sherlock's hand, not replying.

"Almost died?"

John swallowed past the lump in his throat. His voice came out a scratchy whisper. "Nearly."

"M'sorry."

"You'd better be." He ducked his head to kiss Sherlock's forehead. Against his skin he murmured, "God I love you."

"I know." Sherlock's lips were set in the faintest of smiles as he drifted into a peaceful sleep.


	2. Part Two

The surgery went well, the doctors said. John looked as though he couldn't quite believe it, continuing to question the doctors long past the point where he himself would have been edging out the door, leaving the nurses to deal with the overtired spouse. Lestrade finally persuaded John to go home around nine, a full hour after Calvin had passed out from sheer exhaustion in his arms. When they had gone, he turned to Sherlock and said, “All right, lad, you can let it out now.”

Sherlock’s face crumpled. His placid mask - the one he had so painstakingly held in place while John and Calvin visited - shattered, and pain crashed across his face in waves. Lestrade held out a hand and Sherlock latched onto it, squeezing so tightly that Lestrade feared his fingers might break. 

“Breathe,” he ordered quietly. “C’mon, with me. Deep breath -”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Sherlock gasped shakily on the exhale, and he immediately sucked in a sharp breath through his nose. “ _Christ_ , don’t they - don’t they have any bloody painkillers in this hospital that actually _work_?”

“Might’ve built up a tolerance, what with the drugs.” Lestrade brushed a thumb under Sherlock’s eyes, which were bruised and appeared to be sitting in half-circle pools of deep purple. “Haven’t been sleeping, either, I see.”

Sherlock shook his head. 

“It’ll come. Just is gonna take longer for you, given your drug history.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock muttered, and then hissed as a new bolt of pain shot through his leg. Lestrade wrapped his free hand around the one that was crushing his fingers and squeezed. 

“Sorry, lad,” he said quietly. “Bit out of practice with the whole reassuring thing. Been a while since one of my boys has landed himself in hospital. D’you want something to drink?”

“Boy,” Sherlock said.

“Hm?”

“Boy.” Sherlock drew a shuddering breath, and then said, when the pain subsided, “You only have - _had_ \- one.”

Lestrade picked up the cloth that John had abandoned and swept it across Sherlock’s forehead, wiping away the cool sweat that had broken out in the wake of the pain. The gesture bought him a few moments to think. 

“I don’t think that’s been true for a very long time,” he murmured finally.  Sherlock blinked up at him blearily.

“I’m not Jack,” he said in a raw voice; whether from the medication or from grief, Lestrade didn’t know. 

“And I never said that you were.” Seized by impulse, Lestrade bent down and replaced the cloth with his lips, tasting salt as he pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “You are Sherlock, and you always have been. And I’m so very glad we met, lad. Even if you drive me completely mad.”

“I don’t always mean to,” Sherlock muttered. His only acknowledgement of the open affection was to press his hand to Lestrade’s shoulder and hold him there for _one, two_ before releasing him. Lestrade drew back.

“I know. But those days before you woke up were bloody terrifying, Sherlock, for all of us. Even Calvin. He’s too young to understand what’s happened, but he knows something’s _wrong_. And it scares him. He needs - well, he needs _you_. He needs his dad back.” Lestrade felt Sherlock tense, and he squeezed his hand in reassurance. “And John was a wreck, lad. Still is. So he needs you to put up with the boredom and stick this out even after that medication kicks in and you start to feel better, because the sooner you allow yourself to heal, the sooner you’ll be home. They _need_ you, Sherlock.”

“So do you,” Sherlock said around a yawn.

“God help me,” Lestrade agreed. He laid a palm against Sherlock’s feverish cheek. Sherlock blinked up at him, fighting valiantly to keep his eyes open and on Lestrade. But the medication was weighing heavily on his mind, dragging him down, and eventually his eyes fluttered shut and stayed that way. Lestrade blew out a shaky breath, but didn’t pull his hand away.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmured, sweeping a thumb across two days’ worth of stubble, “I’m very tired of my boys ending up in this place. See that this is the last time, yeah?”

“Yes... _dad_ ,” Sherlock muttered, only half in exasperation. He didn’t seem to realize his slip as he drifted off not long after, his eyes restless against their lids, his chest rising and falling steadily as he breathed. Asleep, finally, and deeply so. Lestrade felt relief unclench the fist that had been locked around his heart. 

“Rest easy, lad,” he said quietly.

“Interesting,” a voice said from the doorway, and Lestrade looked up in alarm. But it was only Mycroft Holmes, in all his designer suit splendor.

“What is?” Lestrade asked warily.

Mycroft entered the room fully, pausing on the other side of the hospital bed. He nodded to Sherlock’s sleeping form. “I was never quite sure which of you he was married to. Not really. But now apparently you’re ‘dad.’ What an interesting development.”

“How so?” Lestrade was instantly on the defensive, as he always was around Mycroft, even though he couldn’t tell where the man was going with this. 

Cool gray eyes met his. “Because Siger Holmes was never anything other than ‘Father’ to us. And you...are anything but _Father_. And while his keeper you may be, neither are you his brother."

  
Mycroft ran the backs of his knuckles down the line of diamond buttons on his jacket. It was a possessive gesture, and Lestrade wondered how unconscious it was. _No, Mycroft,_ he thought, _I would not fight you for that title._   


  
But Mycroft wasn't finished. "There was a time when I might have called your devotion to Sherlock 'singular.' But it's hardly singular anymore, is it, with John Watson in the picture. I wondered for quite some time if you might be jealous of the good doctor for usurping your place in Sherlock's life, but he hasn't, has he...'Dad'."   


  
"If you've got a point, Mycroft, then make it and get out of here."   


Mycroft ignored Lestrade, walking over to Sherlock's bedside. He stood there for several long minutes, looming silently over the prone form of his younger brother. It had been several years, Lestrade realised suddenly, since he had seen Mycroft, and it was shocking to realise that the man had been aging right along with the rest of them; there were streaks of grey at his temples that he didn't bother attempting to conceal, and lines at his eyes and mouth that made him look tired. 

Finally Mycroft reached down to rest his fingers against Sherlock's wrist. "If you were to die and leave me all alone to deal with Mummy at Christmas and Easter, I would never forgive you. Is that understood?"

Sherlock didn't move. Mycroft nodded once, tucked his umbrella under his arm, and strode briskly from the room. His words, "Good evening, Detective Inspector," barely reaching Lestrade's ears before the door swung shut.

\-----

The flat was an unholy mess, and blessedly silent and empty.

Looking around, John braced his hands on his hips and felt a small smile tug at his lips. Toys of all sorts - colourful bits of plastic and wood for his son, expensive metal and glass for his husband - littered the floor and every available surface. Remains of meals and drinks cluttered surfaces here and there, and the dust on the higher shelves was appalling. It was vibrant, vital,  _inescapable_  proof that Sherlock was alive, and their family intact.

Whistling softly, John rolled up his sleeves and began to run water to start an attack on the dishes.

His mobile chimed. He hesitated, in suds up to his elbows, but then sighed and reached for it, calling up the new text. It was from Lestrade.

_ You at the flat right now? _

He dried his hands and replied,  _Sherlock's out, Cal with him_ , and went back to the dishes.

His mobile chimed again not seconds later, and John suppressed a sigh at the interruption. He pulled his hands out of the water, wiped them on his trousers, and saw that Lestrade had texted him again.

_ Good to hear, but I was asking after you. _

John could almost hear the barely-suppressed amusement. He typed back,  _Yeah, just doing some damage control. What can I do for you?_

_ Just stay there. I'm on my way over. _

_ All right then. Door's open. _

John decided to save the dishes for later and try to pick up the living room a bit since he was apparently about to have company. It'd been a few days since he'd seen Lestrade, he realized as he stacked a bunch of dishes together, kicking some of Cal's stuffed animals into the corner, which felt suddenly a little odd; while Sherlock had been in hospital, and then in the early days of his recovery at home, Lestrade had been at 221B almost as often as he had, helping out, watching Cal, distracting Sherlock from the tedium.

He was just putting a new liner in the bin when he heard Lestrade's step on the landing. "Come on in, Greg!"

He heard the door creak open and Lestrade kick off his shoes before he padded into the kitchen. He was carrying a pack of beer, which he held up, raising an eyebrow at John in silent question.

"God, how did you guess?" John said with a sigh, and Lestrade gave him a knowing smile before handing him a beer.

"How'd you manage to get rid of the monsters?" he asked with a cheeky grin, taking a beer for himself before putting the rest in the fridge.

John snorted. "Are you kidding? Sherlock's been cooped up in here for days. He's been looking for an opportunity to escape."

"So where'd they go?"

"Where do you think? Went to the morgue, of course. Had to get on with his work where he left off."

Lestrade all but choked on his beer. "My God, really? Sherlock took Cal to the  _morgue_?"

John's grin widened and he glanced around, looking for a place to sit. All the chairs were occupied so he settled for sliding aside a stack of dishes and pushing himself up to sit on the counter, feet dangling, cradling his beer between his hands. "Perfectly serious, actually. It's the first time Sherlock's been able to handle going out on his own with Calvin, I think it's been driving him mad that he hasn't been able to take Cal on his walks. He promised him the zoo, actually but as they were bundling up he got a call about some results he'd been waiting on, so..."

John took another swig of his beer, then gave Lestrade a cheeky grin. "And you wouldn't believe how fond Cal is of Molly. I'd say he's got a bit of crush on her. Takes after his godfather there, eh?"

Lestrade snagged one of Sherlock's empty test tubes off the table and lobbed it at John; it missed by centimeters.

"Shut up, you," he muttered, taking a swig of beer to hide the fact that a flush had started to creep up the back of his neck. He leaned against the fridge as though trying to appear unfazed, and John laughed out loud. He had yet to forget how Lestrade had ogled Molly at Christmas all those years ago - and made sure that Lestrade didn't forget it, either. "But seriously, the morgue?"

"He's careful to go when she hasn't got any autopsies on," John said. "Really, it's Sherlock. Did you expect anything different?"

"No," Lestrade admitted, shaking his head slowly, "guess not."

John chuckled, and silence fell between them. Looking down at the bottle in his hand, John began to frown, wondering where this was all coming from. Lestrade had a case on - at least, he had last John had heard from Sherlock - and John would never believe he'd come across town like this when there was work to be done, especially when Sherlock and Calvin were out.

He swirled the beer around the bottom on the bottle, clearing his throat before saying, "It's too bad they're not home, I'm sure Cal would've been thrilled to see you."

"Oh, hardly," Lestrade said with a chuckle. "Think he was starting to get right sick of spending time with Uncle Greg. I'm sure he's loving having Sherlock back on his feet and doting on him."

"Don't let him hear you say that. He insists he doesn't  _dote_."

Lestrade snorted. "He spoils that child rotten and you know it."

John gave a loud, deliberate cough. Lestrade looked at him in alarm and John said, arching an eyebrow, "Says the man who has never once said  _no_ to his godson."

Lestrade hid his smile behind the rim of his beer. Silence descended once again, and as the seconds ticked by John became more and more aware of the fact that they simply didn't  _do_ this. He wondered what it was Lestrade was hesitating to say, and felt his stomach clench at the thought. It wasn't fair to Lestrade, but every time John saw him enter their flat, part of him would wonder what bad news he was bearing.

"Greg," he ventured finally, "is something the matter?"

Lestrade looked at him sharply, eyes widening in surprise.

"Hey? What do you mean?"

"I - just that -" John blinked, his own confusion growing at Lestrade's puzzled look. "Well, Sherlock's not here, and you brought me beer, and...just...was there something you wanted to talk about, that you waited ‘til he was out?”

"Didn't have any way of knowing he was out, did I?" Lestrade said with a wink, which only added to John's confusion.

"Er... right, s'pose not..." John trailed off uncertainly. 

Lestrade finally took pity on him. "I'm here to see  _you_ , you daft sod," he said.

"Um... okay. Just - why?"

Lestrade flashed him a grin."'Cause someone's gotta keep you from climbing the walls, yeah? I don't care how in love with Sherlock you are, he's still a mad bastard. I need to keep sane the only other normal person in this mad family. Otherwise I'll have no one to talk to at Christmas dinner, and then where would we be?"

Lestrade pushed himself off the fridge and moved into the living room; John followed. Lestrade pushed aside a pile of Cal's toys and sprawled on the sofa. 

John slowly collected together the pile of papers sitting on his customary chair, buying himself a few seconds to think, Lestrade's words echoing in his skull.

_ This mad family. _

When he looked up, Lestrade was looking at him, eyebrows lifted. John huffed a short laugh. "You'd be left singing carols with the skull, I expect. He's not bad company, when your alternatives are Mycroft Holmes or Harry Watson."

He hooked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing at the skull that had migrated to the bookshelf sometime in the last day or two, and stretched his legs out, settling into his chair as he hadn't had a chance to do in ages.

And when John next looked up, an hour had passed and Sherlock’s footsteps were sounding on the stairs, his step made distinctive by his injured leg. Though more agile than he had been in weeks, Sherlock was still too slow for Calvin, who burst through the door steps ahead of his dad and flung himself into Lestrade’s lap, babbling incessantly about Molly and the lab. 

“Went well, then?” John asked, pushing himself out of his chair with a smile and following Sherlock into the kitchen. 

“You were correct,” Sherlock said, tugging off his gloves. The corner of his mouth twitched as he looked over his shoulder at Lestrade and Calvin. “He has developed a... fondness for Doctor Hooper.”

“Well, if nothing else, he’s got good taste,” John said with a wink. He touched Sherlock’s hip as he passed him on the way to the fridge, calling, “Another, Greg?” over his shoulder.

“Better not. Thanks, though, John,” Lestrade called back. 

“What’s so amusing?” Sherlock asked when John turned back to the fridge.

John made an interrogative noise in the back of his throat and, after a fruitless search for the bottle opener, cracked the lid of his drink against the edge of the counter. 

“I’ve said something amusing, going by the expression on your face,” Sherlock pressed. “Only I... fail to realise what it might be.”

It took John a moment to realise that he was smiling stupidly, and that thought made him grin all the wider.

“Nothing, Sherlock,” he said with a quick shake of his head, bringing the bottle to his lips. “You haven’t said anything amusing.”

“Then -”

“I’m happy, you dolt,” John said with a fond smile. He brushed his knuckles across Sherlock’s jaw fondly, reading the next question in his eyes.

“Because it’s always like I’ve been on the outside looking in, you know?” he said softly, turning his gaze to the living room, where Calvin was standing on Lestrade’s knees, supported by his godfather’s strong hands and giggling madly.

“It was never my intention for you to feel that way,” Sherlock said quietly, and John reached for his hand. 

“I know. And it’s nothing you or Greg or anyone did. It’s just... he had all those years. Before I came along. Almost like he had a head start.”

“It’s not a race, John.”

“I know,” John said with a laugh. “I know. He has you, and I have you. Just in different ways. And... now I’ve got him, and he’s got me. And...” John trailed off, shaking his head. “Sorry. Guess I’ve had a few too many, eh?”

“On the contrary.” Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s temple. “For once, you are making perfect sense.”

“Idiot,” John muttered fondly, cuffing Sherlock lightly across the head. Sherlock wrapped him in a warm embrace, burying his face in John’s hair, breathing deeply and swiftly through his nose.

“I love you, too, John.”


End file.
